


The Intimacy of This

by NoStraightLine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM-ish, Ficlet, John's a BAMF, M/M, implied sexualized violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoStraightLine/pseuds/NoStraightLine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be kinder for Sherlock to do this on his knees, but John isn’t kind. Sherlock’s grateful for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Intimacy of This

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and then beta'd by [Kres](http://archiveofourown.org/works/817556).

John emerges from the bedroom, dressed in trousers zipped, shirt buttoned and tucked in, socks and shoes on, his belt in his hands. The nakedness of the loops at his waist sends sparks skittering through Sherlock's abdomen. It's so intimate, this slight evidence of undressing.  
  
"Sherlock, there's an extra hole in my belt."  
  
"Mmmmm," Sherlock replies. He's standing at the table in the sitting room, dressed in robe and pajama pants and a t-shirt. He sips his coffee and turns a page in the _Times_.  
  
John looks at him. "Why is there an extra hole in my belt?"  
  
Sherlock doesn't deign to answer that question, just takes another sip of coffee. John considers his belt, freshly oiled, a gleaming shade of walnut that matches his highly polished shoes (had to match the belt, for appearance’s sake), then at Sherlock, then at Sherlock's narrow waist. John is by no means fat, but he's sturdy to Sherlock's lean, which explains the extra hand-punched hole at the end of the machine-perforated row.

When the silence stretches to quivering, John raises one eyebrow. Deliberately he drops his gaze to Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock feels the look like the brush of his hand. "Your trousers don't have belt loops."  
  
"I occasionally wear jeans," Sherlock says.  
  
"You own belts. Hundred and twenty quid belts."  
  
“Mmmmm," Sherlock says again, gaze back on the _Times_.  
  
"But you wore mine.”  
  
"Well-spotted," Sherlock drawls without looking up.  
  
John crosses the sitting room to stand right next to Sherlock. He touches the tip of one finger to Sherlock’s jaw and turns his face to John’s. Sherlock’s heart skitters in his chest. Their gazes locked, John works his belt through the loops by touch alone, but doesn’t secure it. Sherlock remembers those hands working over the welts, fisting in his hair, wrenching his head back. John handled him, he thinks as he looks down into John’s eyes. John handled him quite firmly.  
  
"Watch that mouth,” John says.  
  
The sparks coalesce into a lightning strike of lust, and connection arcs between them. John reaches out and puts his hand on Sherlock's hip, then applies enough pressure to make Sherlock sit on the chair. Sherlock inhales sharply when his tender arse makes contact with the wooden seat. John’s gaze tracks the way his mouth drops open when he gasps.  
  
John opens his zip. Sherlock watches his hands work trousers and pants just low enough on his hips to release his cock. His warm scent makes Sherlock shift in place; desire and pain set up a resonance in the abused skin and muscles. John slides his thumb between Sherlock’s teeth, and grips his cock with his other hand.  
  
"Won't take a moment," he says.  
  
It doesn't. John’s easy thrusts are a potent contrast to the fierce stripes of fire he laid across Sherlock’s arse. It would be kinder for Sherlock to do this on his knees, but John isn’t kind. Sherlock’s grateful for that. He  grips the loose ends of John’s belt, applies suction and his tongue, and soon the bitter taste of semen chases the bitter taste of black coffee. John tucks himself away, then nods at Sherlock's hand, now palming his own erection.  
  
“Hands off," he says as he buckles his belt. "I'll see to that when I get home."  
  
Sherlock lifts his hand. Blood throbs under the thin skin of his shaft, in the reawakened welts. John has a full day at the clinic, then continuing education lecture at Barts, then dinner with colleagues. He gathers his coat and bag, and leaves without a backwards glance.  
  
Briefly Sherlock considers purchasing a new belt for John — after all, he did damage personal property — but decides against it. Tonight John will use the belt on him, then clean it, and wear it the next day. When he doesn't, Sherlock will wear it himself, in his jeans, or around his hips under his shirt and trousers when he goes out, the skin-warmed, supple leather a reminder of his secret life with John.


End file.
